


I'll Be As Honest As You Let Me

by Burning_Up_A_Sun



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Bitty is a writer, Bitty is us, Check Please - Freeform, First Kiss, Jack is a Barista, M/M, Meta, Mistaken Identity, Pittsburgh Penguins, Snowed In, meta as fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-24 18:53:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6163206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burning_Up_A_Sun/pseuds/Burning_Up_A_Sun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hopeful novelist Eric Bittle is writing an original story about fictional Samwell University's men's ice hockey team. His favorite place to write is the local coffee shop with the hot barista, Jacques. Whom he may have modeled his character Jack after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Be As Honest As You Let Me

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the [TwelveInTwelve](http://twelve-in-twelve-2016.tumblr.com/) March challenge: Coffee Shop AU 
> 
> Every character, every beautiful one of them, belongs to Ngozi's [OMG, Check Please](http://omgcheckplease.tumblr.com/) web comic. If you've never read it, go now. I'll be happy to wait. 
> 
> Seriously, this is meta as fuck. 
> 
> *i changed the title so don't be confused* from FallOutBoy's **Fourth of July**

“Why _Pittsburgh_ , Bittle. Why?”

The weather lady said the flurries will taper off by mid-morning and _we should have a warm February day, with temps climbing up to the low 40s._ In what world did low 40s equal warm?

Eric unpacked his computer and shined the top, removing the smudgy fingerprints. He loved this booth at **Perkatory** because it had two outlets that worked. The coffee was meh, but the eye-candy was first rate.

As he shed his parka, the snow flurries sticking to the hood and shoulders, his eyes scanned the coffee shop for Jacques, his favorite server. Hmmm. He wasn’t around, but it’s not like the flurries would stop him from coming to work. He was, like, a Northerner. He said aboot when he meant about. And Eh. He said eh a lot.

Ok, fine. The only reason he came here instead of **Sacred Grounds** (which has the best caramel mocha latte with the tiniest hint of sea salt)—the _only_ reason—was for the eye-candy. Plus, it was cheaper than an office. Until he sold one of his novels, the cost of a bottomless cup of coffee and a decent blueberry muffin was better than rent and wifi and electricity.

And in Pittsburgh, it was too easy to get distracted at home by the flurries and the couch, and the blankets and the hot cocoa with just a touch of cinnamon.

God forsaken town. Who even likes this flippin’ weather. Georgia. Should have moved back to Georgia. Pros: weather in winter. Cons: everything else including the fact that Madison, Georgia had a grand total of 3500 people and no hotels higher than 3 stars. And it would have been impossible for him to be as openly out as he was in Pittsburgh.

He’d considered moving when his friends did—after graduation. But University of Pittsburgh had a super amazing Masters of Fine Arts in Writing, and if he could sell even one of the three books his agent was sending to publishers, he’d have enough money for tuition. Until then, he’d keep writing.

So, no matter the weather, he dragged himself to this booth to work, even if sometimes work meant writing fan fiction. Besides, this was halfway between both. It was kind of a fanfic about guys on a college ice hockey team. Something he wrote when he was stuck on his current novel.

He’d named it “OMG, Check Please.” His protagonist was a petite, blond, gay teenage hockey player who happened to be named Eric Bittle. He lived in a frat house with his teammates and basically mother-henned them, baked pies for them, and they accepted him unconditionally—well, most of them.

The team Captain, Mr. 24/7/365 Hockey, saw Bitty as a liability because he came from figure skating. Through hard work, charm, and delicious pastries, Bitty won his respect; eventually, he’d win more. Because the protagonist needed a love interest, and who better than Mr. “Narnia-Deep in the Closet” Hockey Captain?

Eric may have modeled said Captain after a certain tall, well-built, buns of steel, Canadian barista. Of course he didn’t name him Jacques; that would have been gauche. Instead he changed it to Jack and then gifted him with the last name of his all-time favorite hockey player, Bad Bob Zimmermann. The baddest, best Penguin ever to hit the ice. And although Bad Bob reportedly had a son named Jack, Eric had never seen a photo. Actually, in the five years he’d lived in Pittsburgh, he didn’t know one person who’d ever met the son.

For about five seconds, Eric wrestled with the ethics of naming his character after a real person. But he shrugged his shoulders, said “Fudge it," and did it anyway.

Because, in the cold-ass tundra of Pittsburgh, where Eric lived alone in a studio apartment with no real friends, if he couldn’t have a love life, then Bitty sure as hell would.

He opened Archive of Our Own to see if his fic had gotten any new comments, or even better—if that one account, LardoPitt17, had uploaded a new manip. He couldn’t believe it when he saw the first one. They’d taken photos around town that perfectly accompanied different parts of his story, including when his Samwell hockey team played. Whoever _LardoPitt17_ was, they’d even recolored the Pitt hockey team jerseys to Samwell red and added in Bitty and Jack’s names and numbers.

 _Oh yeah! A new one from the Epikegster_. Eric clicked on the link and—

“Beautiful day, eh?”

Eric squeaked as he popped up out of his seat.

“Gonna be warm, too. You won’t need that coat much longer.”

Jacques stood at the corner of Eric’s booth, a damp cloth in his hands. He laughed when Eric jumped, but a nice laugh. Kind, not mean. Not a bullying, _shove his head in the toilet for a swirly_ kind of laugh. While he waited for Eric’s response, Jacques wiped down the table and pleather benches in the next booth.

“Y’all know there’s nothing okay about that sentence. Tiny green buds sprouting on trees, crocuses pushing through the frozen ground like a promise that God hasn’t given up on us, that’s beautiful. Whatever this is—” Eric waved his hand toward the windows, where the flurries had picked up in intensity, “—ain’t it.”

Jacques smiled as he tried to peek around Eric’s laptop. “Do you write? Is that what you do all day?”

Eric swallowed hard. It was ok to tell _himself_ he was a writer. But telling other people was weird. And telling hot guys with, like, zero brains--um, hello? Also, not ok. “I—work. In between cups of coffee and mediocre muffins. Can I order?”

“Sure.” Jacques dropped the cloth to the table and grabbed his iPhone out of his back pocket.

“What in the world happened to your paper and ink pen?” Eric asked, watching Jacques’ damp fingers fumble with the touch screen. Or maybe he just had no idea what he was doing.

“Modernizing.” He shook his head and pecked out Eric’s order without asking, the pink point of his tongue tucked between his lips. “One coffee black, and one mediocre blueberry muffin.”

_**This epikegster was the best yet, with Jack snuggled up next to Bitty, taking a selfie of them on the Haus steps, painstakingly pecking out the 140 characters…** _

_Really? Painstakingly pecking? Worst. Alliteration. Yet._

“If we have better than mediocre muffins, should I send one out, or do you just prefer the mediocre ones?”

Eric looked up at Jacques, into his blue eyes, his dark pupils he swore to God were twinkling.

“Lordy, let me live to see another day. Do not get a boy’s hopes up. First you use the word _warm_ , then _better than mediocre?_ ”

Jacques’ easy laughter stayed with Eric as he opened up his writing program, ready to start the chapter he’d just thought of. He’d have Bitty bake with Jack Zimmerman.

_**When the professor said “group project” in the Women, Food, & American Culture course Bitty shared with Jack, Bitty no brained it. Easiest partner choice ever. He found a pie recipe from the Plimouth colony and together, they would create the most epic blueberry—** _

“I’m sorry, we didn’t have any _mediocre_ blueberry muffins left.” Jacques’ giant eyes looked almost teary. “So I snagged one from the _subpar_ rack.” He set down the plate and the coffee far away from Eric’s computer.

Eric bit his lips and scrunched his eyes, holding back a laugh that was sure to embarrass him in front of this cinnamon roll. Too good for this world. Too pure.

_**...they would create the most epic cinnamon roll pie…** _

With an exaggerated sigh and dropped shoulders, Eric said, “Someday, I’m going to open my own bakery-slash-coffee shop, near the Civic Arena or the Mellon Arena or whatever they call it now. And I’m going to sell muffins and pastry and pies. And yummy coffees. And you know what I’m going to call it? _Check Please_.”

Jacques snorted, then snickered, then laughed until he doubled over.

Eric tapped his fingers on the table as he waited for Jacques to stop laughing. “What? You don’t like the name? It’s a hockey pun.”

Jacques gasped and held his breath to stop his giggles, releasing it when he thought he might be under control. “Ok. Ok. I’m good now.” He swiped at his eyes. “Ok. Yeah, I knew it was a hockey pun. I’m surprised you did.”

_**Bitty would never admit, not even under threats of checking clinics or off-season sprint training, that he loved it when Jack chirped him.** _

Eric pursed his lips, punctuated with click of his tongue. “What’s that supposed to mean? You’re surprised _I_ did?”

Jacques’ cheeks flushed. “I mean, you look more like--”

Eric crossed his arms and waited for the end of that sentence. Mama always said, _“No good is gonna come from a sentence that starts like that._ ”

He almost felt bad for Jacques, who squirmed as he tried to figure out how to finish the thought. “Oh look. Someone’s at the cash register—”

Eric leaned to the side to see the obviously empty counter. He stacked a raised eyebrow on top of the crossed arms and pursed lips. “Nice try.”

The flush crept further across Jacques’ cheeks. “Ok. You look more like a Fine Arts major than a hockey fan. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. My best friend is a—”

“Well, I never… Can’t a Fine Arts major like hockey? I’ve been a Penguins fan forever. Lemieux. Crosby. Jagr,” Eric drawled, his accent thicker than the cold, foul cup of coffee he tried to drink to dismiss Jacques.

“Everyone knows those guys.”

The door chime rang, and Jacques hurried to the register.

_**“Bittle, do they even know about hockey in the deep south?” Jack chirped Bitty as he slid the pies into ol’ Betsy, the best oven. Ever. “Do they know about ice?”** _

_**Bitty laughed at this Jack, who was loose and laid back, carrying on a conversation with more than monosyllables. “Of course we know about ice. How else would we chill the Mint Juleps as we sit on our antebellum porches?”** _

“Sorry ‘bout that. I get in trouble if I let the customers wait.” Jacques smiled as he apologized. “Who’s your favorite player? Because if you say Lemieux…”

Eric saved his document. At this rate, he’d never get this chapter of OMGCP finished. “My favorite player? You’ve probably never heard of him. Bad Bob Zimmermann. Best all-around player Penguins ever had.”

Jacques’ face shifted from a drop-jaw open mouth to a hidden grin. “Everyone’s heard of him. He’s a nice guy.”

Eric’s hand flew to his mouth. “You know him?”

“He’s kind of a family friend.” Jacques looked over his shoulder and ran to the register to handle the small Elevensies rush.

 _Jesus Christmas_. Jacques knew Bad Bob. Eric’s stomach was a jumble--what if Jacques told Zimmermann about him?

Eric turned back to his computer, popped in his ear buds for some Beyoncé, and opened a new document.

_**The first activity Bitty planned for his Mother on Family Weekend was a tour of Faber. Show her the rink, the training room, the locker room. It was the single most important place to him on Samwell’s campus.** _

_**“Will Bad Bob Zimmermann be here?” Eric’s mom had heart-eyes when she mentioned his name. It almost made him gag. “He was like all the Jonas Brothers rolled into one with a slice of Tim Tebow!”** _

_**Bitty did gag.** _

He saved that document, naming it _Plot Bunny: Family Weekend_ , and reopened _Women, Food, & American Culture._ Eric watched Jacques work the customers, charming them, smiling, still not speaking more than a few words. He drew from that, and with a smile, he began typing.

**_…Jack laughed at Bitty’s floured face. “You have a little bit right---there—” His finger swiped near Bitty’s lips, and Bitty wanted. To take that finger into his mouth. To swirl his tongue around the tip. To hollow his cheeks and show Jack Zimmermann what he was missing._ **

**_Bitty closed his eyes against his need and repeated his Mantra. Never fall for a straight boy._ **

“Sorry, but we’re closing early.”

Eric squeaked as he popped out of his seat again. He had to stop doing that. It wasn’t very…manly, but between the ear buds and his focus, he’d missed Jacques.

“Goodness gracious, you could give a boy a warning.” Eric patted his chest, as if he could settle his heart from the outside.

Jacques smiled. “Are you sure it’s not the six cups of coffee?” He looked at the again-empty cup.

“Shush you.” Eric smiled as he looked up. When he looked out the store’s windows to the darkening street, he asked, “Is it 6 already? Did I work through lunch?”

“You always do.” Jacques pulled the glass sugar dispenser from Eric’s table and refilled it. “Not close to 6. Weather got it wrong. They’re expecting another foot or so. No customers. Might as well close.”

Eric’s shoulders fell. “Oh, crud. I walked today.” With a sigh he closed his computer and packed it in his bag and said, with false brightness, “What’s a little walk in the snow, right?”

Jacques spoke quickly. “I can drive you, if you want. I understand if you don’t want me to. I could be an axe murderer or something, and we don’t even know each other…”

“That would be awesome. Thank you.” Eric stood and extended his hand. “Hi. I’m Eric.”

Jacques wiped his hands against each other, dusting sugar from them. “Jack.”  
A nervous laugh bubbled up in Eric’s chest. “Oh my gosh, I thought your name was Jacques. I—”

Jacques—Jack—made one sec motion and disappeared into the back. While he waited, Eric slid his parka on, zipped it to his chin, and pulled the fur-lined hood up. Jack returned with his parka and backpack. He opened the door for Eric, who barely stepped into the snow before he beamed at Jack for his kindness.

They walked around the building to the tiny, employee parking lot. With a gentle hand to Eric’s lower back, Jack guided him to the last car and unlocked it as Eric stared. “You drive an Infinity?” Eric asked.

Jack shrugged and didn’t answer as they buckled in. “Parents’ car. “

Eric squiggled down against the seat, making himself comfortable in the luxury car. “Thank you so much for driving me, Jacques—Jack.” Eric blushed and hoped Jack would assume it was from the cold. “I have to get used to thinking about you that way.”

Jack drove out of the parking lot, and from the side, Eric thought maybe it was Jack who was blushing now. “So. You think about me, eh?”

Eric squawked a strangled, embarrassed sound. “I mean—”

“I’m teasing. We’ve lived here a long time. My parents know everyone. I hate it, so I try to stay anonymous.” He laughed at himself and said, “Not that it’s a big jump from Jack to Jacques.” they drove in silence for a few minutes before Jack asked, “Can I make one stop before I take you home?”

“Goodness, Jack. Of course. I’m indebted to you for the ride.” Eric smiled, and with a swoop in his stomach, decided to trust Jack. “I am a writer. You asked before. I don’t tell anyone because I think they’ll make fun of me.”

Jack kept his focus on the road, but somehow, Eric felt like he was the sole focus. He told Jack about writing his novels, growing up in Georgia with a football coach father who, Eric was pretty sure, didn’t approve of his figure skating son. Applying to Pitt on a whim, staying after graduation. Jack listened, commented, added to the conversation when Eric spoke of his father.

Eric finally looked out the window instead of at Jack. “This is Squirrel Hill. What kind of stop do you have to make?” He laughed and said in a fake posh accent, “Do you need expensive champagne or an ounce of Russian caviar to fortify you for the storm?”

Jack snickered. “I think I probably have plenty of both.”

Once again, Eric covered his mouth in embarrassment. “I wasn’t—I just—I was playing. It’s not like you’re independently wealthy and live here.”

Jack laughed and snuck a look at Eric, who’d attempted to shrink into the car door. “Well, not independently.”

“Oh my God.” Eric’s jaw dropped. “Are you taking me to—your house?”

Jack turned into a driveway that continued for a quarter mile and then parked his car in the empty space in the 3 car garage attached to the largest house Eric had ever seen.

“Leave your coat and shoes out here.” Jack pointed to the row of coat hooks next to the door. “My mom will skin us if we get footprints on her clean floor.”

Up three steps, through the door, and into the most luxurious kitchen Eric had ever been in. The pies, and tarts, and rugalach, and muffins he could bake here. He stood in place taking in every inch of the cabinets, double oven, sub-zero refrigerator.

“I’m glad you’re home safe,” Jack’s mother said as she pecked his cheek. She smiled fondly at Eric. “It’s a wonderful kitchen, isn’t it? I don’t use it enough. It’s crying out for a real baker. You must be Jack's friend from **Perkatory**. I've heard so much about you.”

Eric squeaked.

Jack’s mom was beautiful, like the classic girl next door. Tall and thin, but what Eric noticed most was her kind smile and how it reached the tiny crinkled corner of her eyes. Like Jack’s. He definitely didn't inherit her fair skin and blonde hair; he must favor his father.

“Call me Alicia,” she said as she led Eric further into the kitchen. “That bump at the table, totally engrossed in the newspaper, is Jack’s father. Robert.”

Robert didn’t hear her.

“Robert, dear. We have a guest.” Nothing. “Bob stop reading the paper!”

Bob looked up, flashing the same sky blue, twinkling eyes.

Eric squeaked.

“Oh my god.” Eric pointed, his eyes fluttering as he tried to speak. “You’re Bad Bob Zimmermann.” He turned to Jack, who was leaning against the wall and taking it all in.

“I generally go by Robert or Bob now. Sometimes Robert Laurent Zimmermann if I’m in trouble.”

Alicia tsk’d him and put the kettle on.

“Do you need to sit?” Jack laughed as he pulled out a chair, and Eric collapsed into it.

Eric hid his face in his hands and mumbled. “You said he was an old family friend.”

Bob laughed. “Again, Jack? He always says that.” When Eric looked up, Bob smiled kindly. “Do you have a name, son?”

“Goodness, my Mother would skin me for forgetting my manners.” Eric stood up and extended his hand. “I’m Eric. Eric Bittle.”

Jack’s jaw fell and this time, Jack squeaked. “Bittle?”  
Eric nodded and gratefully accepted the cup of cocoa from Alicia. He immediately placed it on the table for safe keeping.

She handed one to Jack and made sure it was firmly in his hands. “Jack, is Lardo coming over today to work on that project? I know she was supposed to but with this weather…”

Eric squeaked. “Lardo? LardoPitt17?” He dropped his head back to his hands. _I’m mortified. I’m dead. I’ve died of mortification. In front of Bad Bob Zimmermann. And his son, Jack Zimmermann, whom I named a totally fictional character after. I named Jack Zimmermann after Jack Zimmermann. Oh my God, I'm going to hyperventilate._

Alicia looked from Eric to Jack and thought for a moment. “Come along, Robert. I don’t know what it is, but something’s going on. They could use some privacy.” She dropped a kiss on top of Bob’s head and left the kitchen. Bob grabbed his newspaper and followed her.

“Oh. My. God.” Eric whispered, not lifting his head from his hands. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t—I never would have—”

“You’re Eric Bittle. Bitty. You write Check Please?”

Eric pulled his head up, knowing his face was on fire, and nodded.

“We love that story!” Jack had his phone in his hand, his thumbs flying faster than Eric had ever seen them move—which, granted, still wasn’t that fast. “Lardo’s got to meet you.”

“She makes those manips.” Eric said, then cut himself off. “Wait. You love the story?”

Jack sat at the table next to Eric and nodded. He talked about the compelling story arcs, the friendships, and how the author had complete knowledge of hockey life. “What we appreciate most is the inevitable relationship between Jack and Bitty. So often on tv and in movies, there's a bait and switch where we’re led to believe that two male characters are on the cusp of a relationship, but it's always pulled away.”

 _How did I think he had zero brains?_ “Queer-baiting is the term. I despise it.” Eric gritted his teeth.

“Lardo and I really appreciate what you're doing with the story, and that's why we make the manips. We both agree it's important the kids like us are represented in literature. Fuck heteronormativity!”

Their words tumbled out over each other's sentences, cutting each other off, completing thoughts.

Eric's mind rewound the conversation. Jack had said, "kids like us.” Before Eric could stop himself he spluttered, "Are you gay?”

Jack’s belly laughter was joined by a higher feminine one. "So you're Eric Bittle?" A girl stood in the doorway between the garage and the kitchen. “Don’t you dare move, because I'm going to hug you right now.”

Lardo launched herself at Eric and about hugged the bejesus out of him. “I can't even with that fic!”

This time the three of them spoke at once about Pitt’s Fine Arts Department, photography, the manipulations, and the future storyline, ending in the inevitable post-graduation kiss between Jack and Bitty.

Lardo stood up, shook Eric's hand, and said, “It was real honor to meet you. If I can ever help you with the story, if you need someone to bounce ideas off of, I'd be happy to help." She hugged Jack and said, “I have to get back to campus before the roads get worse." She blew them a kiss and left through the garage.

Eric’s stomach felt all butterflies in the silence in the kitchen. It was heavy and thick but also wonderful, the way it felt at home just before a tremendous thunderstorm came, the atmosphere crackling with electricity.

“If the roads are bad you should probably--” Eric said twisting around to look out the kitchen window.

“We have plenty of room here you could stay if you wanted…” Jack ran the words together without a breath.

Eric look at Jack and felt a little shock of electricity. "If you don't mind it's probably safer to stay here. I would hate to have something happen to your face.”

Jack rolled not just his eyes but his entire head at the obnoxious comment, and they both laughed. Jack slid his chair away from the table and stood up. “Let's find you some warmer clothes.”

Jack looked at Eric, and there it was again. The small but definite electric shock. Eric watched Jack move slowly toward him.

_**Jack closed the distance between them and slid one warm hand to the small of Bitty's back while other caressed his cheek. Jack looked in Bitty’s eyes and slowly brushed his lips over Bitty’s.** _

“Okay?” Jack asked Eric, and when he nodded, Jack dipped back in for a fuller, more lingering second kiss. “Does this answer your question about if I'm gay?”

Another nod. Another kiss.

Eric had a billion questions--why did Jack work at **Perkatory**? Why didn't he play hockey? How was he so good at--

“Jack Zimmermann.” Eric pulled away in feigned shock. “I look like a Fine Arts major? You and Lardo--mphff.”

It hasn't taken Jack long at all to learn the best way to shush Eric.

_**Jack kissed Bitty, pressing their bodies together so Bitty would know the extent of Jack’s interest.** _

_**For the first time, Bitty was so very glad for being snowed in.** _


End file.
